


Adoribull Prompt Fills & Other Fics

by AislinCade



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Feels, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mild Gore, Prompt Fic, Sexual Content, quick fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-03-21 10:29:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3688824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AislinCade/pseuds/AislinCade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of the various quickfic and promptfic I've written. Please feel free to give me prompts for these two idiots, and if I find them inspiring, I'll try to write more! Fluff and smut only though, please. I don't really like angst in general.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prompt: Things you said when I was crying

The ale in my mug is bitter and so am I. My eyes sting with unshed tears, my mind is full of doubt and shame. Your arm is a heavy, welcome weight around my shoulders — it holds me here, in this moment, with you, so I can’t disappear entirely into the dark and twisting corridors of my own pain.

"Kadan," you say, softly, and my shoulders shake with the effort to contain my quiet mourning. "It’s enough," you say, but you’re not talking about my tears, my sorrow. "You’re enough,” you say, and I can’t hold it back anymore; the gaps in my armor are too many and the shreds of my strength too few, too weary. The tears come, and with them the wracking sobs, and I love you, my _Amatus_ , I love you.

"You’re enough," you repeat, pulling me close, giving me shelter from prying eyes within your silhouette. "To me, you’re perfect."

So are you. I bury myself in you, envelop myself in your protection. With you, I am enough. With you, I am whole. With you, I am perfect.

And so are you.


	2. Prompt: What you said too quietly

"Sometimes I wish we’d never met," says Dorian under his breath, so quietly it’s barely audible, but the Bull hears him because _Hissrad_ had been trained to hear the quiet things, especially the barely audible ones, and it’s a skill the Bull never lost.

But his many years of training have also taught him never to take things at face value without evaluating them first, turning them over to see all their parts. Most things the Bull takes at face value in the end, but never without first considering all the alternatives.

Careful consideration of tone: the words had been too quiet to be honest; Dorian is not a quiet man. He had been in the beginning, stifling his cries against the heel of his palm, burying his face into pillows, but the Bull had asked him to let it out and he’d never been quiet again. His moans, his pleas, the strings of curses in ancient Tevene still echo in the Bull’s memory. Dorian’s honesty is loud and vibrant, never hushed.

Careful consideration of body language: they’re both naked under the sheets and Dorian is doing his best rashvine impression, his wiry arms and legs woven around the Bull’s stockier frame, his mustache tickling the Bull’s neck. Despite his words, he hasn’t moved.

Careful consideration of their surroundings: the Bull’s own bedroom, messy with scattered piles of discarded clothing. The smells of sweat and sex in the air, along with the faint, lingering scent of smoke from the singed curtains. 

Careful consideration of events leading up to the present moment: Dorian’s head thrown back on a wanton moan while the Bull pinned his legs to his chest and fucked him mercilessly; Dorian clawing welts into the Bull’s back that still sting, hours later. Dorian thrashing against the sheets as he came, sobbing, the Bull’s name on his lips and fire in his eyes. Dorian setting the curtains alight in his excitement.

So the Bull doesn’t take Dorian’s words at face value; doesn’t let him go as he would if he thought Dorian was being honest. “Why’s that?” he asks the top of Dorian’s head as he curls his arm tighter around Dorian’s torso.

"Because you’ve ruined me for other men," Dorian says petulantly, plucking at the sparse hairs on the Bull’s chest and making him wince from the sting. "If you ever leave me, I’ll wither away and die from lack of spectacular sex."

The Bull laughs and presses a kiss into the sleep-mussed mop of Dorian’s hair. “Well,” he says fondly, pulling Dorian until he’s straddling him, cupping Dorian’s cheek so he can look into those warm golden-brown eyes, heavy-lidded and smudged with kohl around the edges. “Don’t plan any trips back in time just yet. I’m not going anywhere.”


	3. Prompt: Sharing a blanket that's too small

Dorian and the Iron Bull had slept together, in the literal sense, several times before they’d _slept together_ , figuratively. Before they’d fucked. (Three times!) And then they’d slept together again, literally, afterward. 

The first few times they’d slept together (literally) had been in separate bedrolls, in tents, while last night had been -- _intense_ comes to mind, and the Bull allows himself a moment of silent amusement at his own joke. It’s funnier still to imagine how Dorian would react if he heard it: the man pretends to be such a tough customer, postures like he’s above such base humour, but the Bull’s been trained to see the expressions people don’t even know they’re making, and Dorian? He loves puns. He _especially_ loves to criticize the really bad ones. He’d scoff, and his brow would furrow, and the bridge of his nose would crease, but the subtle wrinkles around his eyes would deepen as well, and the right side of his face would pinch up in a tiny smile while he disparaged the Bull’s intelligence. He wouldn’t even know he was smiling, is the thing, and that’s what makes it all the more alluring.

Unfortunately, Dorian is asleep, so it remains a silent, private amusement for the Bull. It’s far from the only amusing thing about waking up beside Dorian -- though really, ‘beside’ isn’t exactly the right word for it. Dorian’s also a bit over top of him (his arm thrown across the Bull’s chest, head pillowed on his breast; the Bull can feel each of his deep breaths in puffs of moist warmth that wicks away in the following inhale, leaving the patch of skin under Dorian’s mouth cold) and a bit underneath (the Bull had woken sometime in the night to the startling feeling of icicles jammed under the sensitive back of his knee, had realized belatedly that it was Dorian’s toes when the icicles wiggled and Dorian sighed with relief). 

The times they’d shared a tent, Dorian had been fairly sedate in his sleep; at least, the Bull had never noticed anything out of the ordinary. People sleep differently when they travel, though. Conditions are often rough and bed rolls are thin, space is limited, and then you add in the exhaustion and the knowledge that you’re not in the most defensible of positions and might be attacked at any moment, and the end result is that nobody sleeps very well or for very long, and they sure don’t sleep the same way they would at home.

So the Bull had pegged Dorian for a restless sleeper despite evidence to the contrary, and he’d not been wrong: Dorian had rolled away from him more than a few times in the night, taking more of the already too-small blanket with him each time, but each time he’d eventually rolled back and tucked himself against the Bull’s side again. Dorian is now wrapped up up in all but a tiny corner of the blanket, leaving the Bull completely bare to the cool early morning air. It’s a good thing Ben Hassrath training had given him some control over his own physiology: the previous night had been far from the coldest he’s experienced, nor was it the longest period of time he’s gone without protection from the cold. Even now, at arguably the coldest point in the night, the Bull barely notices the chill. 

Something the Bull hadn’t predicted, though it’s pretty obvious in retrospect: Dorian’s as mouthy in sleep as he ever is, even if it’s mostly unintelligible. The Bull had almost burst into laughter when he’d heard that familiar, chiding tone shaping nonsense words, interspersed here and there with brief phrases in Tevene or the common tongue. The talking had only lasted a few minutes, had ended with a sleepy rendition of that pursed-lipped, rumpled look he gets sometimes, the Dorian version of a pout; then his furrowed brow had relaxed as he gusted a long breath across the Bull’s chest and fallen, still and silent, into a deeper sleep,

Now Dorian’s starting to stir; his breathing is lighter, and he’s taken to rubbing his face against the Bull’s chest while he fights his way back toward sleep. His mustache tickles, the sensation not enough to make the Bull laugh, but enough to raise gooseflesh along his torso and his upper arms. He thinks, fondly, of rashvine: the way its bristles normally burn and scald the skin, but once you’ve been around it enough, it’s actually kind of a pleasant, if itchy feeling to hold onto it for a while. It still leaves marks, but the Bull thinks he’s probably alright with that.


	4. Headcanon: Bull's Missing Fingers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How the Iron Bull lost two of his fingers.

He's tired. The fight is drawing to a close - a dozen or more bodies lay scattered around him; some friend, mostly foe. Fucking Tal Vashoth, targeting innocent civilians, as usual: a merchant caravan this time, mostly Viddathari, mainly humans, a few elves. Thankfully, no children. But no civilian deserves to be attacked while they're just going about their business.

Hissrad is locked in battle with two Tal Vashoth warriors, possibly former karashok if their swordplay is anything to go by. Gatt is somewhere in the fray, picking off the last of the archers and throatcutters. Hissrad manages to finish off one of his attackers with a gutting slash, but the other lands a blow on his shoulder that sends pain spiking down his spine. When he tries to block the next attack, his sword arm doesn't heed his command and he fumbles it, the blade hitting the ground with a dull thud; he realizes too late, when the sword is already swinging down upon him from above, that his shoulder is dislocated, and there's no way for him to parry the blow.

He throws up his good arm instead. The sword bites through flesh and bone, but in that moment, all he feels is the impact; the pain, he knows, will come later. His opponent rallies for another strike and Hissrad turns himself to take the worst of it on his armored shoulder, anticipates the pain of the blow on the injured joint, but it doesn't come. The Tal Vashoth's eyes widen, instead, and he coughs, a spurt of blood bubbling past his lips. And then he falls, with two of Gatt's daggers buried in his back, one through a lung and the other near his lumbar spine.

Gatt stands before him, panting, but smiling, until he notices -- Hissrad watches those odd hazel eyes alight on his shoulder and narrow, then track over the rest of him. Hissrad is doing the same, of course: checking for injuries on Gatt that might not be obvious to him while the energy of battle is still rushing in his veins. Aside from a few scrapes and dirty scuffs, Gatt appears unharmed. Judging by his expression, though, Hissrad hasn't been so lucky.

"Vashedan, your fingers," Gatt says, reaching for Hissrad's arm with one hand and digging into a pack at his hip with the other.

Hissrad looks down to see his hand drenched red, bloody stumps where two of his fingers used to be, a third cut down to the bone. Gatt is already wrapping a length of cloth tight around Hissrad's hand to curb the bleeding.

"We need to get you to the Viddathlok," Gatt says, then curses. "I don't think I've got the strength to set that shoulder myself."

Hissrad growls in pain as Gatt draws the binding tight around his fingers, but Gatt doesn't so much as blink, just keeps wrapping with steady motions. "If we hurry, we might be able to save that one finger," says Gatt. "Looks like the other two are a lost cause."

"Two down, eight to go," says Hissrad, and Gatt barks a surprised laugh.

"Yeah, you're real tough, Hissrad. We all know it." He ties the makeshift bandage in a knot at the back of Hissrad's hand -- blood is already seeping through the fabric, staining it, but the pressure will stop the bleeding soon enough. Next, he picks up Hissrad's sword and straps it into its harness across his back. Hissrad's shoulder protests the added weight and his hand throbs in time with the pain pulsing through him, but he's alive, and so are the merchants. All in all, he considers the day a success.

"Ebadim vashedan Tal-Vashoth," Hissrad says, spitting on the ground and the corpses littering it. "Ebra-hissal eva-lok defransdim."

Gatt snorts a laugh, and the two of them regroup with the other remaining Ben Hassrath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Ebadim vashedan Tal-Vashoth, ebra-hissal eva-lok defransdim"_ Translation:  
>  Those excremental Tal-Vashoth can go do something explicit with my intimate friends. (Note: "intimate friends" is likely a reference to genitals rather than lovers.)


End file.
